Toxic
by Frisky Wallabee
Summary: This has been gathering dust on my computer for ages. Spavid oneshot. Jack died that winter when the trees were bare AU. Rated for slash and death


"This city kills you," Jack said, smoking, going through another bout of depression. "Sucks you dry. At least you're out of here soon, Dave. You can write."

I looked down at him in the bed. He was so thin, haunted-looking with dark circles under his eyes like bruises. His face, usually curled up into a grin, was pinched and gaunt. His veins showed through his skin that was now paler than mine.

Jack died that winter when the trees were bare, not being able to tell which ones were the ones Jack loved, that turned amber and golden in the fall. That he loved to jump into, pulling me with him and screaming old west cries that rented the air. I wanted to read something I had written about him at the funeral but no words would come out.

Soon, I would be gone. Off to the hills and grass and clean air of Berkeley. I dreamed of it, clutching the brochure in my arms, whispering the words from it like prayers into my pillowcase. I would study poetry and sit alone—I didn't get along with people all that well outside of Jack—at fountains, playing with Sylvia and Keats.

Tonight, I went to the club where Jack and I used to go before he got too depressed to leave his bed. I never liked it; it smelled of smoke and beer and sweat. Kids crowded everywhere, dancing and jiving and slamming to pulsing music. I hated that the most; the constant press of bodies on me, choking me.

I didn't drink, I didn't smoke like Jack often made me so he didn't feel like he was killing himself with nicotine or booze. I just sat there, trying to absorb the memories that we spent in the booth, watching the other kids dance.

I shouldn't have done it, it just reopened old wounds. I was writing about Jack on a cocktail napkin and a hand closed over mine. I placed my pen down and saw Spot Conlon. I didn't know if Spot was his real name or if he made it up but he was Jack's friend.

"He's happier now," he told me. "Let him go."

I dropped the pen and left my hand over the napkin, keeping the poem secret. "He was my best friend."

Spot eased in next to me. "Let it go. Let it all go."

I looked into his eyes that were charged like a bloated sky before a storm.

"I can't," I said.

"It's this city," Spot leaned in. "It's killing you, opening these old wounds. But you'll be gone soon."

I didn't know how he knew about that, about my going to Berkeley.

"How did he die, David?" Spot demanded, looking at me with those stormy eyes.

I stared down at my napkin, crumpling it in my hand. I couldn't speak to Spot. Not about that. And it was hard to speak with those eyes disarming me and leaving me shivering and naked, a scared little boy in front of him.

"Jack was sick," I said. "Really sick."

He reached out and stroked my arm. "Physically sick or mind sick?"

I didn't answer him.

"Did you love him?" Spot asked me.

I was surprised by his comment.

"Of course I did," I said. "He was my best friend."

Spot smirk lit up his face in a way that made the throbbing strobe lights seem dull. "That's not what I meant."

I knew what he meant. He meant that I was _in_ love with Jack. No…never. Not that we never tried. Jack had mentioned that we were so fucked up that we had to be together. That was before the disease. We had sex only once—as much as I loved him, sex was all it was—and it wasn't full waves cresting over the horizon and the world being shaken to its very core. It was just me and him in a bed, moaning and sweating.

"I didn't love him like that," was what I said. "But I did love him."

We sat in the booth, off in our own little world and Spot absently moved his hand up and down my arm.

"But," I turned my arm so I could see the crumpled napkin in my hand. It kind of looked like a flower. "I can't…I can't _see_ him. Like how he used to be. I can only see him in the bed looking like…a marionette or a porcelain doll."

Spot nodded. "Tell me more."

The tone in his voice, it made me want to say everything.

"I could barely look at him, all propped up against the pillows," I sighed. "I went with him to hospital visits but it killed me each time. And he'd feel sick so there'd be the endless waiting in the hospital, and…God…you just wish it was over. That you just want it to end because you can't stand the waiting anymore."

I felt tears rolling down my face as I relayed the story to Spot. I shouldn't have come here. Spot stared at my crying baldly and I couldn't read the expression on his face. That was why I was surprised when he kissed me.

"Come on," Spot whispered. "And let it go, Davey."

Later that night, I was on a futon with Spot. And it was full waves cresting over the horizon and the earth shaking to its very core.

I would be in Berkeley soon. I would be away from the toxic, life-taking city. I would be in college, doing college things with writing and poetry. I would never forget Spot who made me let go and I definitely would never forget Jack who died when the trees were naked when he couldn't jump into the piles screaming. On that futon, I didn't feel like a complete person on my own. Jack had made me feel whole and when he died, he left that.

Now Spot, for that night, was filling the void.


End file.
